


in any world but ours

by orgiastique



Category: Fire Emblem: Fuukasetsugetsu | Fire Emblem: Three Houses
Genre: Canon Compliant, Canon-Typical Violence, M/M, Oral Sex, Porn with Feelings, Trans Felix Hugo Fraldarius, Trans Male Character, Vaginal Fingering, Vaginal Sex, Wartime Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-25
Updated: 2020-09-25
Packaged: 2021-03-08 03:40:51
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,473
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26649178
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orgiastique/pseuds/orgiastique
Summary: If life was a book, he wanted nothing more than to turn to the last pages of his own, but he was scared shitless that Felix's name would not be there beside his.Sylvain and Felix share one night together on the eve of war.
Relationships: Felix Hugo Fraldarius/Sylvain Jose Gautier
Comments: 22
Kudos: 170
Collections: Sylvix Week 2020 Fic Collection





	in any world but ours

**Author's Note:**

> \- this is a collab with the amazingly talented [@fimbulyeetr](https://twitter.com/fimbulyeetr) who drew art for this! make sure to give them a [RT & lots of love on twitter!!](https://twitter.com/fimbulyeetr/status/1309557337787633664?s=20) ♥  
> \- HUGE thanks to my betas [birdsandivory](https://archiveofourown.org/users/birdsandivory/pseuds/birdsandivory) and [quietgal](https://archiveofourown.org/users/quietgal/pseuds/quietgal) who are both the bestest ♥  
> \- shout-out to atonement by ian mcewan, which is a fabulously heart-breaking book that reeks of sylvain gautier & was my obsession at the time of writing this. so if you see me handwaving to it, then you too have read a great book :'))  
> \- words used to describe felix's bits: cunt, clit, slit, lips, folds + mention of breasts and binding

"Anything worth dying for is certainly worth living for."

— Joseph Heller

Outside Sylvain's room, Garreg Mach glowed orange with torchlight, cautioning of the war to be. Inside, Felix shared his bed. His thighs cradled Sylvain's hips as he rolled them over, rising above him like a midnight sun.

"You gonna fuck me?” Sylvain said, while a whole other conversation played in the back of his mind. If life was a book, he wanted nothing more than to turn to the last pages of his own, but he was scared shitless that Felix's name would not be there beside his.

Felix answered by taking him inside. He ground against him in short little starts and stops, palms pressed to his chest, until he found an angle and rhythm that left them both gasping for breath.

Desperation clawed like a beast beneath Sylvain's skin as he watched Felix move. He gripped his hips, lining his thumbs with the jut of his pelvis. When he thrust up and into him, Felix's mouth fell open, and the headboard tapped the back wall.

Felix's lashes whispered over his cheeks as his eyes screwed shut. His hair was damp against his forehead. The long strands that fell loose from his hair tie curled where they met the faint swell of his breasts. Scars mapped his skin, and Sylvain traced them carefully so that he would always know where Felix had been, and where he would go.

He placed a kiss on Felix's shoulder, and Felix returned it to his lips hungrily, seeking his tongue. Sylvain moaned into his mouth, "Why haven't we been doing this all our lives?"

" _Someone_ was into the prolonged foreplay."

"I was waiting for the right moment. Knew you were going to ruin me."

A soft little gasp escaped Felix's lips when he came down hard, taking more of Sylvain inside. Pressure built in Sylvain's chest and gut in equal measure, and all he could do was to ache to pledge his life to this man.

But the decision was not his to make, no more than it was for anyone else born to his station. From the moment of their conception, they were looted of their free will, eyes blinded and hands bound by duty—the assumption that the choices they made were not as fine as those made for them.

Was it too much to ask, just to feel like your life was your own?

"You're thinking so fucking loud." The rhythm of Felix's hips slowed, then stilled. His thighs were shaking from exertion, skin slick with sweat. "Stop. Just look at me."

He gripped the back of Sylvain's head with both his hands, the intensity of his gaze forcing Sylvain's eyes into focus.

And in that moment, he forgot how to see anything else.

* * *

The war had been going on for just over six months now. There was no end in sight, but at least there was still enough food to go around. The menu today was thin gruel with brown and yellow chunks floating in it. The chef had made a portion for each of the 110 men who left for battle that morning.

The 58 men who returned sat around the fire with their own serving, taking turns peering into the still half-full pot. They slurped down the contents of their bowl. Soon, they would ask for seconds, but not just yet.

"Good stuff, huh," Sylvain said, breaking the silence. He swallowed down another slimy, tasteless mouthful.

"My lord, I mean this with the utmost respect possible," began a man who held his head in his hands, "but shut your damned mouth." His irascibility could hardly be helped, for earlier that afternoon, he'd gained a too-intimate understanding of his childhood friend's pink-soft insides.

To his left, a mage about Sylvain's age took a careful sip of the stew. A shudder ran through her. Still, she smiled up at the group and suggested, "It…could use some salt, perhaps."

Not too long ago, Sylvain would have maybe liked to take her to bed—or, given the circumstances, for a quick romp behind some ancient tree. But there was very little heart left for loving amidst all the killing. Slaying a man called for more commitment than loving one; in the moment you took their life, and for the rest of your life.

After dinner, the troops distracted themselves with chess and letters from home. Sylvain had written four letters to Fraldarius and received only two in reply from Felix. One indicated that he and Rodrigue were off to Fhirdiad to reclaim Dimitri's person or his severed head. The other was a one-liner: _The only victory is survival._

Sylvain stared into the campfire. The flames lapped at the night air, drinking in her sweet breath. 

He thought of that night.

They had kissed each other with creature instinct, hands on ribs and speared in hair, pulling back only to restart their hearts, and then they were back in each other's mouths again.

"I want more of this," Sylvain murmured, breaking the kiss. "More of you."

Felix's head fell to one side as he let Sylvain nibble down his throat. Sylvain cupped his jaw with his hand as he tasted his skin, sucking rose-colored reminders that he had once been there.

When Felix shoved at him, grumbling, "Too much; people are going to say stupid shit," Sylvain propped himself up on his hands and stared at him. Even with his brows furrowed, his mouth pleated, Felix's beauty was devastating.

"We're going to war. No one's going to comment on your hickeys." This was probably untrue, but maybe Felix wouldn't notice.

"Bullshit," Felix said, noticing. "It's the only thing they'll want to do to distract themselves."

"So, as long as it's somewhere people won't see, then it's okay?" Sylvain slid down Felix's body. He could smell him, ripe between the legs. The small tuft of hair concealed from sight the source of the scent that made Sylvain's blood roar. "Let me?"

Felix pulled his bottom lip into his mouth, head still turned away, obstinate. "You don't need to."

Sylvain kissed his thighs, one side then the other, skimming over the place he burned for the most. "I want you. Please?" He peered up at Felix through his lashes and saw that he had only one more protest in him. Nuzzling his nose to the dark coils of hair, Sylvain ghosted his lips over Felix's slit. "Let me take care of you," he whispered, puffing air over the glistening mound, and Felix agreed at last on a gasp as he bucked in his hands.

_He's beautiful_ , Sylvain thought as Felix's legs fell apart around his shoulders. He gripped at his thighs, feeling the tension in them, and kissed him from the back of his knees on one side down to the ankle on the other. By the end of it, Felix's hips were rolling in front of him, searching.

Sylvain gave in to the seduction of him, the warmth and musk and creamy silk spilling past his folds. He kissed him gently over the rise of his clit, then closed his eyes against the intensity of it. His mouth was open and sucking, devouring, and when he painted slow, tortuous circles around his clit, Felix anchored his hands fully into his hair and rocked into him until they fell into a rhythm without stutter. His legs wound around his neck, thighs clamped around his ears. The only thing Sylvain could hear was the muffled sound of Felix's gasps, the rustling of sheets beneath their bodies as Felix moved up into him.

Felix filled him full, and Sylvain wondered if he'd been empty for so long for this purpose; if everything had been taken out of him to clear space for the swelling in his chest when he saw Felix like this, at his tipping point.

Felix's neck was corded and thighs flexed as he strained for the finish. Sylvain saw the moment it happened: Felix's eyes popped wide open before they squeezed shut again, a wet trail cutting across his temple as he struggled not to make too much noise. 

The swelling pushed painfully against Sylvain's ribs. It thrashed like a wild animal, furious in its confinement. Sylvain knew the name for this feeling. He climbed up Felix's body and smashed their mouths together. He tasted like Felix, and Felix tasted like him.

"Please tell me you feel it, too," Sylvain whispered, voice hoarse and desperate. "Fuck, Felix. I feel everything for you."

The campfire rasped out a red-orange lullaby. A blush of gold lifted into the darkness, gleaming for a moment before fading into the night. Before long, the sun would spring out from behind the mountains, and it would be lances and swords and violet sparks of Reason scorching human flesh to a cinders.

Fuck the war.

Sylvain was in love.

Fuck the war.

* * *

In the second year, the winter arrived early and with it came the ceasefire.

Sylvain was marching back to Gautier when he received notice. He gave fewer than ten words of instruction to his cousin Marco, who acted as second-in-command, before he pivoted on his horse, charging south. He was determined to beat the snow.

But never once had man truly prevailed over nature. Night fell quickly over him. Soon, he couldn't see two feet ahead, and only knew that the snowstorm whipped into a funnel in front of him from the bristles of ice it flung into his eyes. His fingertips stung with pinpricks, and his toes were numb of feeling.

He didn't dare look behind him. There would only be a seamless stretch of white that filled his tracks.

Wouldn't it be funny, if this was how he met his end? Not heroically in war, or tragically at the hands of his brother, but recklessly, en route to see his almost-lover.

It wasn't funny at all, Sylvain decided as he put one foot in front of the other. He'd sent his horse ahead of him, trusting her keener instincts for survival. Sylvain had to survive, too.

Felix had made him a promise, and Sylvain was going to keep him to it. 

He ducked down his head against the blast of freezing wind. He kept walking, thinking of that night.

Felix's skin had been so warm when he touched him under the sheets. He still had Sylvain's spend on his tongue, on his chin. Sylvain took his face in his hands and kissed him, teasing at his lips with his teeth. With one hand, he threaded his fingers in Felix's hair and tipped it back, and with the thumb of the other, he swiped the white droplet off Felix's chin and pushed it into his mouth.

Felix huffed quietly, knowingly, but sucked his lips around the finger, licking it clean. 

Sylvain took a sharp breath, then pulled away to strip away the comforter that separated them. 

As his eyes roamed over Felix's body, his heartbeat crescendoed, then skipped staccato. He wished to grow a thousand pairs of hands so he could feel all of him at once. The muscles flexing under his taut skin. The heavy drum of his chest. The sharp spasms of his abdomen when Sylvain gripped at his sides. The line of dark hair that tempted Sylvain lower.

He moved a palm down over Felix's navel, fingers brushing just past the short curls, before he paused. "Is this what you want?"

Felix's gaze was stuck somewhere past Sylvain's shoulder, but it sharpened on his face when Sylvain's hand began to retreat back up his body. His eyes flashed urgently.

"What, Felix?" Sylvain mumbled, mouthing at the Thoron scar splintering down his shoulder. "I come on your lips, and you're ready to call it a night? Why did you come here?"

Felix's lips drew tight, and he averted his gaze. "Don't tease me."

Sylvain hummed. Slowly, he descended over Felix's breasts, kissing the lines left by his binding, before ghosting his lips over a nipple. "It's not my intention."

"Then"—Felix gasped when Sylvain sucked the nipple between his lips—"come _on_ , dammit." He clutched at Sylvain's shoulders, using them as leverage to push his hips into the hand that lay over his hip.

Sylvain let the nipple slip free from his mouth. "Since you asked so _nicely_."

Felix was drenched and swollen when he slid his fingers over him. As much as he wanted to keep dangling the carrot over Felix's head, make him cough up a proper answer to the question he'd posed, he couldn't resist giving Felix what he wanted. He pushed two fingers into him, and Felix's hold on his shoulders tightened as he rocked up, fucking his hand.

Sylvain worked his tongue over his nipple, making the same circles in the same rhythm as he did over his clit. Felix's abs tightened, trembling, and his breathing grew heavy. He was letting out a string of barely audible curses.

Sylvain wanted to hear him scream his pleasure.

Three fingers slid easily into him, the heel of Sylvain's hand grinding relentlessly against the outside. And finally, Felix let out a shout, rippling around Sylvain's fingers as he hammered out his orgasm into his hand. His cunt pulsed and gushed and tried to push Sylvain out as much as it sucked him in further. Sylvain clenched his teeth, fruitlessly seeking friction against the bed.

Felix's orgasm lasted long enough for Sylvain to unlatch his lips from his nipple and move up to cover his mouth instead, feeding on all his tortured sounds. It lasted long enough for him to rain soft, sweet more-than-nothings over his cheek, his eyelids, his temple, and finally understand the bitter twist in his gut when he'd whispered them to anyone else in the past.

He waited for Felix's body to quiet, hovering over him. He dipped down to kiss his lips once more before pulling his fingers out of the wet heat. He painted a slick path up Felix's body, tracing circles around his nipples and watching as Felix arched his back and squirmed, oversensitive.

Burying his head in Felix's neck, he let out a sigh. His mind was a mess, and his heart was all fire. "Why are you here, Felix?"

The knob of Felix's throat bobbed. "Do you really have to ask?"

"Tell me," Sylvain urged, the flames swelling, swarming his ribs. "Please. Tell me a lie, tell me the truth, just—"

Felix embraced him so fiercely he couldn't breathe. "Where else would I be? If the world was fucking ending tomorrow, where would _you_ be?" he said, and inside Sylvain's chest, the inferno bellowed.

But it was soon buried under the roar of the wind, whose frigid coattails whipped by with a loud crackle. Well. Such was the price of daydreaming, the moment reality returned to backhand you in the face.

Irony was the light that shone in the distance. The outline of a cabin emerged from the wintry wasteland before him. One day, Sylvain would face the Goddess and find out if she was loving or cruel. But the world would hold him in suspense for another night, at least.

In the morning, Sylvain's horse would lead Marco here. He would bang on the door of the modest cabin, and relief would unknot every pinched line of his face when Sylvain hobbled up to greet him. _Thank the Goddess_. _What future would remain for Gautier if we lost you_?

In the end, what was lost was a toe, but at least it wasn't a finger.

At least, he could still touch Felix the same way.

* * *

Year three was the summer of mosquitoes as large as cicadas. Speaking of which, the year three was also the summer of cicadas up in hysterics. The horny bastards. It seemed so human to witness all this death and want family. Or maybe it was the beast in humans to want the same. You heard the dying groans of the wounded, and your heart tapped out its command: "Find him. Marry him. Spend your life loving him."

All this time, and Sylvain wasn't even halfway there.

He had servants to gear him for battle, but he preferred to assemble his own defenses. Slip into a second leather skin. Fit the breastplate of his armor to his torso. Give the cinches of every tightening belt one last tug, and the transformation was complete.

When he stepped out of his tent, he could see that it was a dreary, terrible day. The air still smelled of blood and pus and charred flesh. He stood before his men and talked up morale in long verses, all the while only two words were strapped to the back of his tongue: "Go home."

He would shout them at every member of the enemy forces, too, if it meant a thing. There was no hatred in his heart for those who charged at him; only devotion to protect those stood behind him and all the others who hadn't the strength to fight.

So, he aimed, and aimed, and aimed again. He slashed across lungs and throats, met the backsplash of burst entrails. In one hand, he gripped the Lance of Ruin; with the other, he grappled with the misguidance of common belief regarding crests and relics. The absence of a crest did not turn you into a monster, no more than the presence of a crest could save your humanity. You were a beast the moment you lost your reserve to wield the damn thing. 

Then, you became wild, driven by horror and without will. Powerlessly, you plunged into the melee and you drew blood with your blade or watched a blast of black magic tear asunder the body of a boy, no more than fifteen. The moment, in suspension. Then, his life dropped away, while you rode on.

A breath of wind sang past Sylvain's shoulder, followed by the crackle of metal punctured. A woman shrieked; a horse whinnied. When Sylvain turned his head, he saw her—the one who drank the slimy, tasteless soup with a smile. A javelin impaled her thigh and threw her balance. She was falling. He yanked on the reins, pivoting sharply, extending an arm toward her. A chorus of shouts erupted behind him, and he gritted his teeth. He couldn't save them all, but he could save this one.

The moment his fingers skimmed her arm, the ground hollowed. His horse buckled beneath him. He crashed to the ground on his side, armor clattering. His vision blurred from the impact, but it took only a split-second to realize that his mount had been slashed out from under him. And it was another before the same blade was back to take his life. He thought he was climbing, but climbing was no mean feat, concussed and balanced on only nine toes.

A man rose up from the ground. His dark eyes fastened on Sylvain, and his face bloomed with greed and madness. It was the wicked smile of one of the dangerous ones who believed there was a right side of justice in any of this. He swung his arm back in a wide arc, and his blade split the ground like a savage lover. Sylvain had barely managed to roll out of its path, breathless, and knew he was running out of time.

He raised his head to determine the path of the next strike, but it did not come. There was a wheezed grunt. That smug, savage smile was red around the teeth. Blood frothed from the man's mouth, and all the life escaped him all at once; he was a hunk of meat, skewered through the center. The wall of his body crumbled to the grass, and with the demolition revealed a dark-haired swordsman flicking blood off his blade.

Sylvain whispered his name. He'd lived in Sylvain's dreams for so long now that the corporeal form of him seemed at odds with reality. Felix extended a hand out to him, and Sylvain took it, their grip on each other absolute. He stumbled forward a few steps when he rose, clumsy and nine-toed, and came so close to crashing into Felix that he could see now how his eyes blazed. How livid he must have been to find Sylvain here on the battlefield, only a hair's breadth from death, but oh, Felix could be horn-mad and spewing his curses in dirty little spitballs, and he would still be beautiful, his Felix, Sylvain would never again let him out of sight again.

But this was no time for reunions. There was never any time for rejoicing. He had Felix within arm's reach again, smelled the dirt and musk and guts on him, and why couldn't the circus around them take a break for once?

"Are you hurt badly?" Felix's eyes scoured his body.

Sylvain shook his head; it wasn't important. Felix's voice was deeper, richer, like a five thousands bells all calling him home. Goddess, all this blood around them, and the cicada in Sylvain could only think of how much he wanted him.

It was then. 

A hail of arrows pelted down from the northern sky. Never had Sylvain studied the steps to a dance that called for this ugly turn of feet, a collision of bodies, quick embrace, then a clumsy collision to the ground; but instinct was not a taught thing, anyway. He balled his body in a shell around Felix, sheltering him. 

Eyes bugging, Felix wheezed, trying to recover the air that was knocked out of him. Sylvain was having trouble breathing, too. A piercing pain locked his shoulder in place when he tried to move. Another arrow was lodged in his lower back. He let out a groan.

"What?" Felix asked, straining his neck to see Sylvain's face. "Sylvain? _Sylvain_!"

Oh, how he wished he could take away the pain and fear in Feix's voice and replace it with the tender joys of life. How was it that Felix always managed to find him at his worst? He always found him at his worst and, somehow, kept coming back. 

Felix was still shouting, his voice aimed away now. "Is there a healer around?! Damn it all. Anybody!"

Sylvain was very cold, then very hot, then choked for air. He began to tremble. Ah. Poison. A nice touch.

"Come on, hold it together!" Sylvain felt Felix shove at him, trying to right their bodies. "You _promised_ me!" Then, rough hands cupped his face, pulled and patted at his cheek.

That was the touch. The reason that he must survive. The tides tried to tow him under and to give into the darkness was all he wanted. Oh, what he wouldn't give to rest in that tranquil sea of relief. But where would that leave Felix? _Don't go where I can't follow_. Was that what he'd said? Or was it, _I only want you to myself._ Or was it, _The only victory is survival._

"You promised me!" Felix's voice cracked, and Sylvain was falling through the chasm.

_Live, then you can ask me._

_And I'll say yes_.

* * *

Felix would recall that night at the worst possible opportunities. 

_What are you doing here?_ Sylvain had asked him, over and over, and it was a question he pondered every time he brushed shoulders with death in the years after. He didn't have a good answer for Sylvain back then, either. Only that he needed to be where Sylvain was. Maybe the answer was that simple, now, too.

Except war, Felix found, was a faithless and obscene thing, not nearly so honest as the cock that swelled in his palm when he picked apart the strings of Sylvain's trousers and gripped him, pumped him.

"What are you doing here?" Again, with that.

It was a fair question. It wasn't every day you returned to your room to find a man naked in your bed. But it was hardly just any day, either.

Sylvain's fingers tangled hard in Felix's hair as he exhaled a tight groan. Felix used both hands on him, balancing his elbows on the edge of the bed, and in an ambitious gesture, swallowed around the blooming head of his cock. He choked, and immediately, Sylvain's hand came to his cheek. He took a step back, beginning to drop to a kneel next to the bed, but Felix hated half-baked resolve.

He jerked Sylvain's hips in toward himself and Sylvain stuttered forward, slapping a hand on the wall for balance. When Felix opened his mouth this time, it went better. He'd learned his lesson, and more importantly, he paid attention to the things that mattered. 

He couldn't say that he practiced the motions with any finesse, but soon, Sylvain was crying out, desperate.

"Close— Felix—"

Sylvain gripped his head like he wanted to pull back but, unable to fight the suction of Felix's mouth, couldn't and began instead to jut his hip instead, shallowly, out of control. Then he held steady, and Felix could feel the tense swelling of his cockhead over his tongue, the hot streams that flooded his mouth. Bitter, though not unpleasant.

Then, the tables were turned, and it was as if Sylvain was the one who had come to him, who wanted to claim his life before the war did. Sylvain shed his shirt and slid his pants and smalls off his legs. He watched Felix's face as he undressed.

He slipped a hand under the sheets and said, "Fuck, Felix," when all was revealed to him. The bareness made Felix seek cover, but the way Sylvain's eyes caressed over his skin gave him flesh and bones. He was not a weapon to serve his country and king, but a person.

Sylvain touched him with warm hands, and the heat of them crawled up Felix's skin until it was a fist around his heart. And at the end of it, there he was again asking for an answer, for a lie, a truth, _anything_. 

The honesty Felix gave him was a key, or wine: whichever unlocked more courage. Sylvain's tongue grew bolder, licking into him, and when he was done, it wrapped around a confession that made them both tremble.

"I feel everything for you," Sylvain said again, like a plea.

Felix replied, "Me too." Sylvain was hot and heavy against the crease of his hip. Felix wrapped his legs around his waist, angling himself. "I've had to live with these feelings far longer than you."

Sylvain shook his head. "That can't be right."

"It is," Felix said.

Maybe they would have indulged in another trivial round of dispute, but they found each other, then. Just the tiniest nudge at the entrance of Felix's cunt, and they both shut up. Their eyes met in silent conversation; that was all they needed. Then, Sylvain was pushing his legs up high and he was entering him forever. He was so thick, so hard that when their hips collided, it hovered on the edge of discomfort, but somehow that, too, felt just right. Felix didn't need room in his body for breath or doubt. 

Just Sylvain.

He pulled slowly out, then even more slowly back in. He ducked his head down to brush his mouth over Felix's, and Felix slid his hands down his back and gripped his ass, feeling the bunching of the muscles as he moved. He dug in his fingers and growled, urging, and because Sylvain had always understood him better than anyone else, perfect curling thrusts answered his call.

Sylvain dropped from his hands down to his elbows and pressed his palms to his forehead, sliding them over his hair. The way he looked at Felix was bright and intense and adoring as he moved faster. He was working so hard, quivering with the effort of all that he gave to Felix and all that he was still holding back. Felix rutted back up into him with equal desperation. Every time their hips collided, it was _stay alive_ and _we cannot die in a place like this_. It was _I have already buried my king and kin. I cannot bury you, too_.

"In any other world," Sylvain whispered, as if not daring to speak too loudly, "I would live to please you and kiss you where you're sweet and perfect all day long. And it'd just be that. That would be us, in any world but ours."

Felix felt pleasure climb up his body like a vine, and there was a split-second of the most consuming heat before he was falling. All his wildness was unhinged. He pulled and clawed and bit and was only appeased when he felt Sylvain follow, jamming his face in his neck and grunting into his skin with every exhale. His arms were shaking with exertion, slick with sweat, when he hugged them around Felix's shoulders and scooped him off the bed.

"Felix," he was saying, stringing his name like a lifeline, knotting it around the end of his tongue and holding on tight. "Felix…"

It wasn't over. Not yet. Felix flipped over on top.

"You gonna fuck me this time?" Sylvain asked, like he didn't think Felix could hear the noise in his head. 

It was so fucking loud. "Just look at me," Felix said.

When Sylvain's eyes continued to swim somewhere in the distance, panic rose inside of him. He grabbed at his head and centered himself in his vision so that he stood in the path of his wandering. Finally, Sylvain's gaze sharpened into focus on his face.

"Don't go where I can't follow."

And then, they were off racing again.

When the wild panic of bliss quieted and their breathing slowed, then steadied, Felix noticed for the first time that the sky outside the window had paled into an indigo. Morning had found them in their sanctuary.

He buried his face in Sylvain's shoulder. A little while longer. Just a little while longer, he thought, breathing deeply the scent of sweat and sex and torches burned down to a stub.

Sylvain let out a questioning little noise. "What's wrong?"

What was wrong? Felix was eighteen years old and his entire life had been a war story. Here he was, with the beginnings of a better story clutched in his arms and no words in his mouth.

"Felix?" Sylvain pulled back to look at him. He stroked the backs of his fingers over his cheeks. "Are you okay?" His expression grew nervous. "Was that not— Do you—"

Felix shook his head, tried to shake away the bitterness, the regret, the resentment, the fury. What good would it do him? He was raised for this path; he'd walked these roads all his life behind his brother, sharpening himself on others. War was the calling of the sword, and yet, did he truly love the brightness of the sword for the light it diminished?

Dying was a heinous fate and killing an even worse one for having to live with it. But at least you got to live.

"In any other world, huh," he murmured. He felt Sylvain's eyes on him, waiting. "You know, I can't imagine it any other way."

"You've never thought of escaping all this?"

"Of course I have."

"Then—"

"But it wouldn't change a damn thing." He met Sylvain's gaze, held it. When you were hurt, you could grieve endlessly for your wounds, or not. It didn't matter. You'd still be where you were yesterday, having recovered no more of the life or innocence lost. But the choice was yours, whether to give your scars meaning, or simply to carry them with you. "Isn't that why you stay? For the people who don't have the choice to run away?"

Sylvain stared at him. "You think so highly of me. I never knew."

Bastard. 

"Well, what would you even do if I asked you to escape this all with me?" Felix challenged.

"Spend the rest of my life with you?" Sylvain answered without pause. When Felix angled a look at him, he twinkled with a smile. "You said _if_. If you get a hypothetical, then I get to, too."

Felix narrowed his eyes defiantly, and when Sylvain narrowed his back, Felix curled up and bonked their foreheads together.

"Ow!" Sylvain laughed. "Hardhead."

"Toughen up. You're too soft."

"And you're soft on me. So we're even." Felix opened his mouth to protest, but then Sylvain said, "Maybe I'll be the one to ask _you_ , when this is over," and he slammed it back shut. 

"Don't fucking steal my thunder," Felix said, heart stuttering.

Sylvain smiled, seeing him through. "Oh, but won't you grant me this treat for surviving a war?"

Felix considered this. If this was all the incentive he needed to remember to stay alive, then Felix could even do him one better. "Live, then you can ask me," he said, holding the sun in Sylvain's hair. "And I'll say yes."

There wasn't much more he remembered about that day. Just the smile that bloomed across Sylvain's face, and the light in his eyes.

* * *

Sylvain lapsed in and out of consciousness for the next few days. Whenever he waded toward the shallow end of his restless sleep, he'd be able to hear the voices of those who hovered over and around him.

Something about his fever breaking. Something else about saying a prayer to the Goddess for the Fraldarius troops happening upon them when they did. An inane comment about how they almost lost the Gautier relic and what a tragedy that would have been.

The moment the war was over, Sylvain was leaving that piece of shit to the flame and fury of Ailell.

He didn't know how long it took for him to drift fully awake, but the sunbeams were beating down on his eyes in an unnecessarily enthusiastic gesture of welcome when he opened them. His body was sore and heavy, and his throat burned with dryness.

For a moment, he lamented how much nicer his dream world had been before he'd woken. With no beasts to slay, no crest to bind his fate, he crouched for hours in a field of dandelions, just plucking away. The wind would blow by and fill the air with the white pappi and even though it was one of those sunny days so perfectly blue and clear it made your heart ache, the little fluffy tufts filled the sky like clouds. The sun kissed his skin, and for some reason his lips felt especially warm for it. When he opened his mouth, the breeze funneled down his throat, cool and pleasant as a creek water.

It was a wonderful life, doing a simple job, away from the killing and dying.

But no matter how pleasant and peaceful, it wasn't the life that made them who they are. It wasn't the life that he shared with Felix.

In this current life they shared, Sylvain found Felix perched by the window, one leg still propped up on the ledge while the rest of his body twisted around toward the bed where Sylvain lay. He hadn't properly registered the changes in his appearance when they'd been first united on the battlefield, but his hair was shorter now compared to his Academy days, his shoulders broader. There were purple bruises under his eyes, and he'd rounded up a few more moles on his neck and scars on his hands and arms, though Sylvain didn't doubt there were even more concealed by his clothes.

In this life, the first thing Felix said to him was "About time you woke up."

In this life, Felix's eyes were always more honest than his mouth was. They shone with relief, amber-bright in the early light.

"Good morning," Sylvain croaked, voice rusty.

Felix hopped off the ledge and made to hand him the cup of water on the bedside table, but glancing at Sylvain, aborted the action. Sylvain must have looked even worse than he felt.

Sitting down on the edge of the bed, Felix helped prop him up to a half-seated position before pressing the cup to his lips. The water was so sweet, so wonderful, he choked trying to take more than he could swallow. Felix patted his back, waiting for the coughing fit to pass. "Can you take more?"

Sylvain grinned, or let his face do as well it could. "I don't know… Maybe if you feed it to me mouth-to-mouth like a small bird."

A rosy flush washed over Felix's face, and he whipped his head away. At first, Sylvain didn't understand; it was the type of simple flirtation that Felix was a pro at ignoring. But then, he touched his lips, comprehension slowly dawning. "All this time while I was out, have you been—"

"Were you ever going to tell me about the toe," Felix interjected loudly.

Sylvain looked down at himself and wiggled his toes under the blanket. Still nine. "About that."

"All those letters, and you didn't tell me."

"It's only the little one. My foot looks slimmer for it, actually."

"Next thing I know you'll be writing off the arrows that almost killed you as mosquito bites." Felix set down the cup, then leaned forward with a frown. "Is there anything else you're not telling me? _Important_ things."

Was there? "Nothing's more important than you being here."

Felix glared, and for a moment looked like he was about to say something snippy, but then, the lines around his eyes smoothed away. He sighed and swallowed heavily, placing his hand over the blanket on Sylvain's arm. "Don't you think I should have full disclosure of what I'm saying yes to?"

Sylvain's heart stopped. "I suppose you should."

"It doesn't change anything," Felix said. "I just want to know."

Heartbeat resuming, Sylvain laid his hand over Felix's. "Okay," he said. "I'll tell you everything."

And he would—he would tell Felix of this and more, so much more. If life was a book, he needed more than the memory of one endless, frenzied night to fill the pages. 

On every page, places they would go together, the things they would see. On every page, the way they would hold each other through the stormy nights, and laugh together in the morning; the way Felix's eyes glinted silver one moment, then gold the next when he drew his sword to a fighting stance, waiting for Sylvain to ready his lance; the way that one day, far into the future, after all the fighting ended, they would trade their weapons for walking sticks, and that wouldn't take a thing away from their strength or meaning on this earth.

…On and on, all the way to the last page, where their names would lay side by side.

In this world, these were the things Sylvain had to live for.

**Author's Note:**

> thanks for reading! ♥
> 
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